


you in a fight you lost

by ag_sasami



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! VRAINS
Genre: Blow Jobs, Developing Relationship, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2020-02-08 18:12:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18628570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ag_sasami/pseuds/ag_sasami
Summary: Half-slumped over in his chair, back to the console, Yusaku’s eyes are fever bright and unfocused. The headlines flashing across Kusanagi’s screen tell the same story: bio-weapon.Or, the one where Yusaku logs out of VRAINS infected with a sex virus and things get a bit out of hand.





	you in a fight you lost

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a big fan of the notion that (1) Takeru did a lot more than fight and skip school while he was busy self-destructing, and (2) that Yusaku is a bit of a screamer. Sorry not sorry and all that.

A jolt runs through him just before the log out command finishes executing, a sharp ripple through the code that leaves him short of breath. Yusaku opens his eyes and the VRAINS room spins sickeningly. He closes them again, leans back against the wall and breathes deeply—in through his nose, exhale out through his mouth.

“Yusaku?” Ai queries. “That code...”

“It’s nothing,” he winces pushing himself back up off the wall. “I’ll be fine.”

Ai cautions, “I don’t think that’s true,” which goes unheeded as Yusaku hits the open button.

Takeru is already waiting in the truck’s interior when Yusaku’s door slides open with a whoosh. The sound feels loud, amplified, and he grits his teeth against the grating sharpness of it.

“Are you feeling okay?” Takeru is looking at him, eyes narrowed.

“No worse than normal,” he replies and his voice is gravel broken in his throat. Unsteady, the world lurches sickeningly as he steps out of the room.

When Takeru catches his arm as he stumbles, “Yusaku,” his touch feels unusually hot. His skin feels electrified, buzzing with radiant energy beneath Takeru’s hands and the all the fabric between their skin. His head is swimming, and Yusaku refuses to give Ai the satisfaction of confirming his suspicion about the code. Everything abruptly feels like _too much_.

“No worse than normal, my ass,” Takeru grumbles mostly to himself, frowning.

It becomes apparent quickly that he is decidedly not fine. Not when he leans into Takeru’s touch involuntarily. Not when he drops heavily into his chair at the console and the bright light of the monitor makes his stomach turn. Not when his eyes track the words from Takeru’s mouth and he notices that his lips look soft. Inviting.

Yusaku’s mouth feels like a desert.

Instead of commenting further, Takeru watches carefully. He sees how Yusaku’s hands shake as he pulls off his duel disk and sets it on the console beside Kusanagi. Takeru sees the color rising high on his cheeks, the rest of his skin blanching pale while Ai goes on about malicious code. Kusanagi frowns, begins typing rapidfire as windows pop up on his screen, and Takeru watches Yusaku’s breathing become shallow and shaky. Half-slumped over in his chair, back to the console, Yusaku’s eyes are fever bright and unfocused.

Kusanagi tsks, and Takeru snaps to attention. There are headlines flashing across Kusanagi’s screen, all telling the same story. Takeru reads it out loud, “Digital bio weapon?” It doesn’t escape his attention that Yusaku winces at the sudden sound of his voice.

“Looks like someone might have co-opted the Hanoi virus for their own purposes,” Kusanagi’s growl is caught somewhere between disdain and anger. He shakes his head and looks at Yusaku. “We need to get him home, Takeru.”

“I’m still conscious here,” Yusaku points out, glancing up at Takeru. Pin-point pupils and heavy lids. “And we need to destroy whatever code they’re using.”

“I can handle it,” Kusanagi insists. Before anyone has a chance to protest, he’s headed for the cab of the truck. “You need to take it easy until we know what this is going to do.” The Ignis both nod. Yusaku frowns but says nothing.

A new headline ticks across the screen, a blog title or something—Takeru wouldn’t know the difference _—Digital aphrodisiac?!_ Takeru looks down at Flame at his wrist and interprets the expression on his features as a raised eyebrow. His attention doesn’t falter from Takeru when he says, “Leave your duel disks here. We’ll stay and help.”

“Hey! Don’t just make decisions for both of us!” Ai protests.

“Are you not staying to help then?”

“...no, I’m staying. Obviously,” Ai crosses his arms in an indignant pout. “I was already going to suggest it.” Yusaku snorts at that.

“Let them,” Takeru suggests. “You’re no good to anyone if you’re sick.”

“I’m not sick,” he half-heartedly insists.

“A modified Hanoi virus is definitely harmless,” Takeru deadpans. Neither he nor Flame mention the apparent nature of the virus. “Let Kusanagi take you home anyway.” When he touches Yusaku’s shoulder it draws an involuntary gasp from him, flinching beneath Takeru’s hand. “Yusaku?”

“Static,” he explains. “I’m fine.” He stands as though it will prove anything when he’s weak-kneed and unsteady, despite his efforts to hide it. Takeru follows on his heels as Yusaku makes his way out to join Kusanagi in the cab. “Actually,” he amends as he stumbles off the bottom step, “maybe I’m not so fine.” It’s quiet, undirected. Takeru isn’t sure whether it was intended for him to hear at all.

Yusaku’s head is pounding, pulse thudding behind his eyes and he’s uncomfortable with all the weight of his blazer. Every nerve attuned to sensation at the expense of thought. It isn’t the feeling of trauma, none of the persistent buzzing and fire under his skin he gets when his damaged nerves misfire. Instead it’s that Yusaku can’t pull his focus from Takeru despite his best efforts. It’s that he feels too hot in all his layers and with Takeru’s thigh flush against his in the front seat of Kusanagi’s truck. That pressure spreads well beyond their point of contact like referred pain but without the hurt. Takeru’s body heat bleeds into him, settles enticingly at the base of his spine.

Warning bells in his head get drowned out by the hammering of his heart in his ears and the thought of climbing into Takeru’s lap and seeking out bare skin with his hands. It’s not a new sentiment but it’s intrusive when Takeru is so close and his fleeting thoughts are screaming at him to follow through. Instead, he breathes through his mouth and knots his hands together until his knuckles turn white.

Thinking is beginning to feel like navigating through fog.

Getting out of the truck’s cab proves more challenging than getting in was, and Takeru catches him with an arm around his waist. He’s all heat, ignited and uncomfortable in his own skin, desperate to get out of his uniform. Each of Takeru’s fingers is a fire burning down to his bones. Yusaku is hyper aware of how close they are, how firm Takeru’s hand is where it’s spread wide over his ribs. Kusanagi is saying something he can’t process and Takeru is urging him to move. The heat chases across every inch of skin, welling up low in his belly.

Halfway up the stairs to his building Takeru hisses, “Shit, you’re hot.”

An unexpected laugh rumbles through Yusaku and they both flinch. The sound is nauseating

“No, I think you have a fever! I mean, you _are_ hot, but that’s not what I meant. No, I mean -” Takeru cuts himself off mid-explanation, groans, “I need to stop talking.” Yusaku nods without further comment. They walk in silence the rest of the way up the stairs and inside. He notes the embarrassed flush on Takeru’s cheeks, the sheepish quirk of his mouth, and thinks he wants to map out the shame with his tongue.

He turns away and takes a slow, measured breath. It is a _mistake_ because Takeru smells good and he’s warm and close—but not close enough—and Yusaku can feel his self-control waning. He can’t think straight, mind a litany of all the things he’d like to do to Takeru right then and there. For both their sakes Yusaku rasps, “I need you to not touch me.” Throat dry. Desperate for exactly the opposite.

“Can we get into your room first?”

It’s not just his own clothes he wants off anymore. “Mmm bad idea,” he hums, and thinks that he doesn’t quite sound like himself: voice forced out through cotton. Like talking into a pillow, a bare shoulder. Breaking that line of thought is an utter failure.

“Okay,” Takeru blows out a long breath. “Okay, can you promise me you’re not going to fall down the stairs if I let you go.”

“Takeru.” Exasperated and incredulous and _no don’t actually move away_ in his heat-addled brain.

“Humor me.”

The command sends a shiver through him. He thinks, _yes,_ says, “I promise.” Just like that, Takeru unwraps himself from around Yusaku’s body. The sudden cold lightness in the absence of Takeru’s arms is jarring but he keeps his promise and stays on his feet.

Letting Takeru in the door before him is a mistake, with Yusaku’s whole field of vision locked on his back. His eyes track the curve of Takeru’s spine as he crouches to set down his bag. The pulse beating in Yusaku’s jaw is maddening, rattling through his teeth. Sweat at his nape. Yusaku feels his hair sticking to his skin as his collar brushes his neck. It’s a minor struggle to shrug it off his shoulders and he lets the blazer drop in a heap on the floor.

He shouldn’t reach out, but he’s itchy with the need to feel Takeru’s skin beneath his palms and he’s grasping for him without really thinking. Fingers wrapped around Takeru’s wrist and slipped under his cuff just so. Despite the way Takeru tenses beneath his grip, Yusaku doesn’t let go, relishes the fresh rush of heat that it sends racing up his arm. He wants to let that fire spread to see where it leads.

He really shouldn’t. He _really_ wants to.

“I thought you needed me not to touch you.” Takeru’s voice is so emotionless it makes Yusaku nervous.

“You aren’t. I’m touching you.” He hears his voice without intending to speak, registers the words and loses track of them beneath the pounding of his pulse in his ears. “What I said before, I think that’s the opposite of what I want, actually.”

Takeru huffs something like a laugh but without any humor. The tendons in his wrist flex beneath Yusaku’s fingers. “This was not any of the ways I imagined this conversation happening.” A wave of _want_ crashes through Yusaku as Takeru pulls free from his grip. Beneath his skin he’s boiling, blood hot and he’s dizzy with it.

“It’s all I can think about right now,” he murmurs. It wasn’t meant to be out loud but it’s becoming a struggle just to form thoughts, let alone censor them.

“Oh,” Takeru breathes, “this is not fair.” His back is still to Yusaku, hands clenched now into fists as he takes slow steps away and closer to the stairs that climb down into Yusaku’s space. Yusaku sets his own bag down and follows after, somehow manages not to stumble even as vertigo races through his brain. He closes his eyes when he reaches Takeru, splays his fingers wide across the space between his shoulder blades. The darkness behind his eyelids, the physical contact, is grounding. It sounds like a warning when Takeru says his name, something dangerous in his tone.

“What isn’t fair?”

“This,” he hisses and turns on Yusaku “You. Everything, I don’t know.” Yusaku’s displaced hands find themselves a place to settle on Takeru’s waist. “You’re sick.” He brushes the back of his hand over Yusaku’s forehead and presses his other against his own to compare. “I’m pretty sure your fever is making you delirious.” Takeru looks him in the eyes and his frown deepens. “And handsy,” he adds.

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” he whines. His face flushes bright. He runs his hands up Yusaku’s arms, leaves them to rest at the bend of his elbows. “And that’s the problem. Because you’re not in control of yourself.”

And _ohhh_ that sounds like an invitation, but the last coherent fragment of Yusaku’s mind is trying desperately to hold onto the conversation.

“I’m perfectly capable—"

“Your brain is on fire with a sex virus,” Takeru interrupts and his cheeks are a color alarmingly close to his hair. “You’re not.”

“So that’s what it was,” he says, and Takeru looks at him strangely. Takeru is _right_ about his current capacity, and Yusaku doesn’t care that he’s not in control because they’re standing close enough that he can feel Takeru’s body heat.

“What if I don’t care?” _Because he isn’t stepping away when Yusaku moves half a step closer._

“What if _I_ do?” _Because he’s close enough Yusaku could kiss him without having to try._

“Do you?”

Takeru’s eyelashes fan out soft as he closes his eyes, furrow in his brow. “No.”

 _So he does_ : cups Takeru’s face in his hands and leans into the distance between them, and Takeru lets him.

That’s all it is for an uncomfortable moment, Takeru _letting_ him.

This strikes Yusaku as wrong. An unwilling Takeru is something he knows he doesn’t want, but his brain is a roar of _need_ and he doesn’t know how to pull away. He’s trying to work out the mechanics of letting go when Takeru makes a frustrated sound somewhere close to a growl and anchors his hands above Yusaku’s waist. Takeru gives into it. Traces the seam of Yusaku’s lips with his tongue, licks into his mouth. He tastes like Kusanagi’s coffee. Drags his tongue light across the roof of Yusaku’s mouth, following the line of his teeth. _That_ draws a satisfied hum from Yusaku as he crowds Takeru’s space.

He’s achingly hard already, senses narrowed to nothing but Takeru and the void of _want_ howling where his mind should be. He urges Takeru to move, or maybe Takeru is pulling him. It doesn’t matter. All he cares about right now is the thought of pressing Takeru into the railing, _touching_ Takeru. The thoughts are incomplete and fleeting. Impressions of ideas—of Takeru’s body beneath him, expanses of pale skin, _bed_ —waylaid by Takeru’s nimble feet urging him to move until his back makes contact with the wall just before the first stair down. Takeru leans into him, a thigh maneuvered between his legs and bodies pressed together with purpose.

Takeru pulls away abruptly, presses his mouth to the shell of Yusaku’s ear and breathes, “I’ve thought about this.” It tears a helpless sound from Yusaku and sends shivers straight down Takeru’s spine. And _oh_ does he want more. More sound. More skin. More of Yusaku. He sinks his teeth into Yusaku’s earlobe and leans his weight into Yusaku’s hips.

Stoic Yusaku made responsive. _Noisy_ . It is _so very satisfying_ to hear him fall apart. It emboldens Takeru. Mouth on Yusaku’s neck, the taste of his fevered skin on Takeru’s tongue. Maybe the virus is contagious, or maybe it’s just Yusaku that makes him impatient. Hands seeking skin he slips one up under Yusaku’s untucked shirt, palm pressed to the skin of his stomach and feeling the flutter of muscles beneath it.

“Takeru.” It’s a whimper, a moan. It’s lightning in his bones and something hot in his veins. It’s Yusaku tugging Takeru’s shirt out from his waistband, his fingers blindly fumbling with Takeru’s buttons. Takeru stops his exploration of Yusaku’s throat to bite at a spot beneath his jaw that made his breath hitch into a broken sound just in time for Yusaku to get his shirt pulled open, to rake blunt nails across Takeru’s skin in startled response. He grasps Yusaku’s wrists, pins them beside his head against the wall, takes in his glassy eyes beneath heavy lids, rolls his hips with purpose.

And Yusaku groans at the pressure, drags his eyes up to meet Takeru’s gaze and says, “Don’t stop.” Watches the dip of Takeru’s throat when he swallows, nods, and leans back in to kiss him again. In favor of pushing buttons through fabric—removing his glasses, losing them somewhere—he lets go of Yusaku’s wrists and Yusaku’s skin prickles beneath cool air as Takeru makes quick work of his shirt. Takeru breaks away from his mouth to lick a stripe along Yusaku’s collarbone.

“Yes,” he hisses, knocks his head back against the wall. Loses himself in the feeling of Takeru kissing his way down his chest. And oh, _oh_ , Takeru swirls his tongue over Yusaku’s nipple, sucks down hard. Overwhelmed by the hot pressure of Takeru’s mouth Yusaku hears but doesn’t feel himself yelp in surprise. He feels the smile against his skin, groans at the sudden loss of friction. There and then gone. Gone because Takeru is on his knees, hands tugging open Yusaku’s belt, his button, his zipper, shoving his pants down over his hips.

He dropped fast enough to bruise and the pain radiating out from his knees reminds him of another life: sea breeze and cigarettes, raw knuckles and every bad decision he could get his hands ( _his mouth_ ) on. This time feels only slightly less self-destructive, but it doesn’t stop Takeru from closing his mouth around the head of Yusaku’s dick. Yusaku’s hands are gripped in his hair and he’s a stream of _mmm_ and _ahh_ and Takeru’s name spilling from between his lips. It might not be the first time—he’s fairly certain it is for Yusaku—but it _is_ the first time he wanted to for himself rather than for the sake of distraction. He dreamed of this. Imagined it at all the worst times to think about blowing your friend. (Best friend? It doesn’t matter.) Takeru is reduced to the stretch of his mouth around Yusaku, rough scratch of a zipper against his skin, and the pressure at the back of his tongue threatening a cough. A threat made real when he hums in satisfaction and Yusaku’s hips snap forward in reply.

“Mmmh sorry. Sorry,” Yusaku pants, weakly pets at Takeru’s hair.

Takeru wipes the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, replies, “It’s fine,” in a rasp. “Try not to move your hips.” He nods, dazed. Swallows hard and tries to focus on Takeru’s face.

His head is empty beyond the buzzing heat, the hammering of his pulse in his ears, _Takeru_ and _yes_ on a loop. Everything is narrowed down to the slick wet heat of Takeru’s mouth—the tip of Takeru’s tongue teased beneath his head, pressure dragged up and down the length of him—until he’s all but over the edge. “Takeru. _Takeru_ , I’m,” he tries to warn. Takeru looks up at him through heavy lashes and bangs that are starting to cling to his skin and swallows down as far as he can. Yusaku groans and tightens his grip in Takeru’s hair, which earns him a moan. The vibration rockets through him and he comes hard: back arched, seeing white.

The hands tangled in his hair anchor Takeru’s head in place through the aftershock pleasure pulsing through him, nose pressed against Yusaku’s stomach and trying desperately to swallow and still keep breathing. His eyes are starting to water and just when he thinks he can’t keep it up, Yusaku’s grip relaxes and he’s tugging at Takeru, urging him to stand. His knees hurt. His jaw hurts. He’s trapped hard behind his zipper and that hurts too. But there’s Yusaku half undressed and looking wrecked as he pulls his pants back up. Yusaku’s mouth on his. Hands burning hot over every bare inch of Takeru’s skin he can reach.  

Yusaku pushes Takeru’s shirt off his shoulders and leaves it piled at the top of the stairs as he pulls him down into the tiny apartment. Suggests the bed with his palm planted firmly against Takeru’s chest. Follows him down in a tangle of limbs and desperate mouths, hands peeling off clothes. Opening up Takeru’s belt, zipper, sliding beneath fabric to expose more skin. To map it all with his hands and tongue, the shape of Takeru committed to sense memory. Takeru bends his knees, grinds his hips against Yusaku’s and the ringing in his ears grows so loud he hears the break in his own voice like he’s listening underwater. He has the barest of seconds to register the predatory way Takeru looks at him before he’s being rolled onto his back and pinned beneath Takeru’s weight. And Takeru is bearing down on him, breath coming heavy and ragged right against his ear. It makes Yusaku feel boneless.

There’s no reason for Takeru to ask, not really, when he says, “I want to hear you make that sound again.” Not when he’s reaching between them to touch Yusaku. It’s not like he could stop himself if he tried, and he isn’t really trying to hold back at all. So when the rhythm of Takeru’s hand is intense enough to drive his breath shallow and short, he pants, _keens_ ; digs his fingertips into Takeru’s back, plants his feet, and arches into it.

Takeru groans, kisses Yusaku’s shoulder—more teeth than lips—takes his hand off of Yusaku’s dick to runs it up the back of Yusaku’s thigh to his knee. Uses it as leverage. Aligning their bodies, Takeru takes them both in hand. Yusaku squeezes his eyes shut so tight he sees stars, not ready to come yet and certain he will if he keeps watching Takeru’s dick sliding past his own.  

Pressure. Friction.

Takeru isn’t sure of anything right now rutting against Yusaku—hands clutching for purchase, head thrown back and throat exposed to Takeru’s open mouth. Yusaku reaches between them blindly fumbling to slip his fingers between Takeru’s and urge him to hold tighter. Move faster.

“Yes _, that_.”

Takeru is trapped between the scorching heat of Yusaku’s palm and pushing against Yusaku’s dick with every roll of his hips.

Clumsy.

It’s fumbling and he’s _so_ close, loses the edge of it because he can’t maintain anything that feels like a rhythm. But Yusaku is saying his name and he comes with a broken sound caught in his throat and Takeru has never wanted anything more than he wants this: Yusaku crying out, feverish and over-sensitive, shuddering with every frantic thrust against him.

Takeru crashes. Whites out with limbs tingling.

 

Takeru is loose with sleep, stretched out on his stomach and snoring softly. One arm hanging off the bed, the other tucked under the pillow. His face is dipped toward his shoulder, relaxed and open. Yusaku watches him a while from his desk chair with his knees tucked beneath his chin, and resists the urge to crawl back in beside Takeru and trace the notches of his back. His stomach is a wreck of anxiety and he’s afraid if he keeps looking Takeru will wake up and, well, Yusaku isn’t quite prepared for what comes next.

What comes next is Takeru’s voice filtering through sleep haze. “Yusaku, if you’re going to sleep you’ll regret doing it here.” He intones an acknowledgement but doesn’t make any effort to move. “C’mon,” Takeru urges with a nudge to his shoulder, and it’s the way he says it—rough and natural, without all the careful attention to his phrasing—that finally makes Yusaku open his eyes. He doesn’t seem to have notice that he slipped his speech.

Takeru is mostly dressed and standing over Yusaku at the desk, leaning into his space and withdrawing when it’s clear he’s attempting to be awake. His neck hurts from falling asleep sitting up and he groans a bit trying to straighten himself out.

“Are you okay?”

Yusaku thinks he means more than just his neck and he opts not to evade. “To be determined, I think,” he says carefully. Takeru looks skittish.

“Go back to sleep,” Takeru suggests. After a beat, “I’m going to head out.” He rubs the back of his head and averts his gaze.

Yusaku feels the awkwardness viscerally. Panics. The words rush out before his brain catches up with his impulse. “You don’t need to go.”

“No?”

“No.” He pauses, searches for an excuse. “You need sleep too.”

“I can—"

“Stay, Takeru.” Takeru stares at him blankly for a moment before closing his eyes and nodding.

“Yeah ok.”

Yusaku slips into the bed as far over as he can to leave space for Takeru, has to look away when Takeru starts stripping back out of the clothes he’d put on again. Something about the tension between them here in the daylight makes it feel too intimate for Yusaku to watch. The bed dips beside him as Takeru climbs under the blanket. Once he settles, stretched out on his side offering up a view of his back, Yusaku tries to make himself comfortable in the too small space without touching Takeru.

Takeru shifts, and Yusaku gathers the fortitude to ask, “Are _you_ okay?”

He takes in a long slow breath, lets it out though his mouth in a sigh before admitting, “I don’t know.”

Yusaku considers that for a long moment before saying anything. The guilt simmering in him wins out over his anxiety about what this means for them. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“I know. But.” Yusaku doesn’t finish the thought right away. By the time he speaks again, Takeru’s breathing has evened out and Yusaku isn’t sure he’s still awake. “You didn’t want to make that choice.”

“I _did_ ,” a firm correction, albeit delayed. “You might have been sick, but I knew what I was doing.” It feels too honest, gutting, and Yusaku is grateful he can’t see Takeru’s face. “That’s not how I would have preferred it to go down. Just,” Yusaku sees the flex of muscles in his arm and knows he’s gripping the blanket, “where’re we now?”

Yuusaku tries to consider the question, all the answers that fit and the ones that might sound wrong. All the questions he wants to ask instead. Mostly Yusaku wants to sleep. Mostly he wants to wake up and not have this tension snagged between them. This is not something he understands how to untangle. He settles on the other thing he wants instead of giving an answer, “Can I touch you?”

“Please.” It’s a whisper, like Takeru didn’t mean to say it.

He’s so tired. Physically. Emotionally. It makes him more straightforward than he would like. But it’s there now between them. The bed shifts. It’s barely big enough for both of them to fit in a way that there’s actually _any_ distance to cross, and they both must be curled in on themselves for it to feel like so much. Yusaku moves haltingly, hesitation clear in the slow way he slips an arm under Takeru’s, eventually resting his hand carefully at the hollow of Takeru’s throat. Yusaku buries his face against Takeru’s neck and just breathes for a while.

It’s warm like this and the gust of breath over his shoulder are even and he’s drifting off when Yusaku murmurs, “I’m not sure where we are,” against Takeru’s skin. Then, “I wish you hadn’t stayed.” It’s like punch to the gut and Takeru immediately feels the room start to shrink in from the edges of his vision. And he must have gone tense because Yusaku is shaking his head, tightening his hold, hair brushing Takeru’s cheek. “That came out wrong,” he reassures. “I just. If you’d left. I didn’t really think about how far things would go. I wanted…” he trails off.

“I should’ve. Pretty sure we both knew what would happen.” And there it is out in the open. It’s true and Yusaku doesn’t reply.

Takeru turns over and curls his free hand into Yusaku’s hair at the back of skull, leans in close, slow. He looks at Yusaku, gives him time to decide. When he closes his eyes—eyelashes dark and heavy across his cheeks—and relaxes, Takeru follows. He kisses Yusaku, closed-mouthed and careful, just a brush of lips. Testing the waters. And when Yusaku kisses back it’s more decisive but no less cautious. His hand is warm, smooth across Takeru’s jaw.

“Can we just be _here_ for a while?” Yusaku tips forward to rest their foreheads together, murmurs, “I wasn’t prepared for things to go anywhere near that far, Takeru.” He opens his eyes to Yusaku’s, blurry so close up but no longer fevered and worrisome.

Takeru nods, says, “Neither was I,” and only realizes it for the first time as the words come out. He reaches out to tangle their fingers together, kisses Yusaku again.

 

They skip school to sleep away most of the day. By the time they make their way to Cafe Nagi the sun is growing softer with the long shadows of late afternoon. Kusanagi gives them an appraising look as they let themselves into the truck. Much to his embarrassment, Takeru is dishevelled in his uniform retrieved from the floor. Yusaku doesn’t bother to hide the dark mark peeking out from beneath the collar of his t-shirt. It further embarrasses Takeru, not because it’s inherently embarrassing, but because he _likes the feeling_ of people seeing the marks he left behind.

 _(Takeru’s face flushed hot upon noticing it. Standing close on the crowded train he brushed his fingertips over the edge of the bruising. Yusaku shivered, said,_ “ _Anything I could do about it would be different enough to draw more attention.”)_

“How are you feeling Yusaku?” Kusanagi asks sincerely, despite the grin taking over his face. They both notice the expression. Takeru flushes magnificently and Yusaku looks at anything _—everything_ —but Kusanagi.

“Better.” Yusaku glances at him. “Did you take it down?”

“Naturally,” Flame drawls from Takeru’s duel disk on the console. Ai makes an awful, delightedly scandalized noise and looks for all the world like he’s about to taunt them.

Takeru points at him and doesn’t bother to smooth out his language when he warns, “Not a word.” As Flame crosses his arms, tilts to the side in a way that says he’s about to do it on Ai’s behalf, he adds, “From either of you.”

“I’ll mute you both,” Yusaku threatens. And the combination of their tone and Takeru’s coarse delivery is apparently intimidating enough that both Ignis slip back into the duel disks without comment.

Yusaku crosses his arms and scowls as Takeru drops unceremoniously into his chair before Yusaku has a chance. He half sits on the low counter—electronics hidden, the impression of a normal food truck—and pushes at the seat of the chair with his foot. As it begins to turn, Takeru plants his feet; smiles up at him. Cheeky, all teeth. In reply, Yusaku huffs out a quiet sound and his expression melts into something fond, soft.

Kusanagi clears his throat. “Hungry?” Yusaku watches Kusanagi force the bemusement from his expression as he throws dogs on the grill without waiting for an answer.

“Starving,” Yusaku replies evenly and Takeru nods in agreement, failing to stifle the yawn he’s fighting.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know how/if they handle it in the dub, but Takeru's manner of speech is absolutely a show he sometimes forgets to put on.
> 
> Also [this](https://youtu.be/oujtnVwwP64), for reference.


End file.
